


A Temporary Fix

by CuttlefishKitch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Art, Cover Art, Digital Art, EDS Gerry, Gen, Kinda, Needles, POTS Gerry, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Tattoos, cause gerry deserves friends, friendship with OCs, he gets close, he's (not) coping, if that makes sense, of the tattoo variety, pain as a grounding mechanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuttlefishKitch/pseuds/CuttlefishKitch
Summary: When Gerry's tattoo artist realizes no one at home will help him take care of the fresh tattoos on his spine, she invites him to stop by so she can help him with it. Gerry spends the next week experiencing something dangerously close to friendship.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 161





	1. Cover

Variegated Tulip- Beautiful Eyes  
Hydrangea - Gratitude for Being Understood  
Azalea - Take Care of Yourself for Me  
Goldenrod - Encouragement, Good Fortune  
Iris - Your Friendship Means So Much to Me  
Cyclamen - Resignation and Good-bye


	2. Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry gets his spine tattooed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major shout out to Ron [@gerrydelano](https://gerrydelano.tumblr.com/) for betaing this for me! Can you find all the little tsp shout outs I wonder?

_Crowns - Usually a symbol of authority, crowns in tattooing often symbolize sovereignty over one’s own life, self-control, and the ability to make one’s own choices._

◇

The money he’d stolen from the register of Pinhole Books sits like a dreadstone in his pocket. He knows by now she’s stopped caring about things as petty as money, but the old lessons and old panic still pull at his nerves and make him want to be rid of it as soon as possible. His shop is nestled on the border between one of the gentrified areas of London, and one of the last few holdouts against the yogurt shops and freshly flipped flats. He’d first been drawn to it because the fog pouring out the door had been thick enough to make his stomach turn. 

Inside was Portia, his artist, already half-gone and about to go sailing with a family that hated her. When Portia’s empty voice had welcomed him to The Living LookBook he almost bolted out the door, but her lungs were full of mist, she wouldn’t survive that sailing trip, and he couldn’t bear the thought of adding another face to his personal catalog of ghosts. 

That’s how he got his first tattoo. Right over his heart. Cheesy as it was, he figured it was the best patch of skin for her to mark to keep her anchored. Besides, he’d been meaning to get an eye done somewhere, and, as the small talk started to chase away the fog, her smile peeked out like beams of sunlight on a cloudy day. She was easy to talk to, and he found himself laughing, for the first time in a while, that, _of course,_ someone marked by the lonely ran a relationship advice blog. She’d pouted at him then, and scolded him for moving while she was trying to work.

He gave her number to someone else he’d met, someone hot and burning and so close to the edge of destruction they needed dearly to create, and he prayed to… something, that she’d use it. He hadn’t intended to come back for more, but Portia’d let slip the date of her sailing trip and it was worth the shot to ask if he could schedule an appointment that day, _ensuring_ she didn’t go instead of simply cautioning her against it. Portia agreed, and Gerry got his second set of tattoos the very next week, keeping his eyes down so he could do his best to ignore the name on the sign. After the third time back he admitted to himself that this was his shop, brain-scratchingly ironic name be damned. 

Today is more for him than her, though. She's been doing better, while he's been doing worse. Today he feels like being cracked open, laid out, and vulnerable with a needle dancing millions of tiny… bug bites? No, anything but bug bites. Electricity? Closer, but he was trying to escape his aches and brain, not spiral deeper in. Flames? Yeah, that was it. He needed fire creeping up and burning over his thin, papery skin, chasing away and consuming his other pains and racing thoughts, nothing nothing nothing but the white-hot sting of the needle gun. Today he's getting his spine done, and he's thrilled it's going to take forever.

"Hey, Gerry! Long time no see!" Portia greets as she meets his eyes with a smile. "We’re doing your spine today, right?" 

When she'd first called him that he'd balked a little. The name felt strange. Rs too soft to be his and ending on an upwards question of a Y instead of the hard finality of a D. He'd almost corrected her, but then it settled in and started kneading around in his head like a cat looking for somewhere safe to sleep, and he let it. Besides, Portia gave almost everyone a nickname, so the soft remolding of something his mother gave him wasn't anything unusual, wasn't descenting, wasn't a betrayal or abandonment. No, it was just a nickname, one he'd grown quite fond of. By the time he blinks away the reminiscence, Portia is about to ask her question again.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Spine today," Gerry finally replies, hoping his genuinely excited grin doesn't come out looking forced around all the sick climbing from his twisting stomach to the back of his throat. Portia clicks her tongue and lets out a quiet _oof._

"It’s gonna be a doozy! Are you sure you're ready for it?” she asks, with just a touch of goading. Gerry gives her a grin and twists his torso, unleashing a series of loud pops from his back which he finishes off by cracking his neck. 

“Work your magic, Porsh,” he tells her, giddy excitement lifting the corners of his mouth like helium balloons. “Can’t be worse than the knuckles.” 

“Well, your back will hopefully be less twitchy than your fingers were,” Portia teases, beckoning him to the back of the shop. Gerry follows her towards the tables, and she gestures to one tucked behind a corner and out of sight from the door or windows. 

"Go ahead and get ready while I find something to tie up my hair, and grab your stencils," she tells him, turning her back so he can strip off his shirt and lay down on the table in relative privacy. It'd only taken her a few of his awkward stuttering false starts and glances towards the window for her to ask if he wanted to get his chest done behind a curtain in the back. After that all he'd had to do was nod. Ever since it'd been the same routine: he'd take whatever chair or table was most out of the way and she'd find some excuse to give him space until he was ready. It was easy, and he relished the feeling of being understood without so many words. 

"Hey, Bridge, you got a hair tie?" Gerry hears Portia ask into the back room where he knew a little design studio sat. He folds his jacket and shirt and sets them on one of the low stools. The question reminds him to gather his own hair up into a messy bun so it won’t fall down over his neck while she’s working.

"Why the hell would I have a hair tie?" Bridget asks, and Gerry can perfectly picture her gesturing to her short shock of bright orange hair. He chuckles to himself as he lays his bare chest on the cool pleather of the table. 

"I've got a spare," Gerry calls as a way of summoning Portia back now that he's ready. He pulls the thick elastic off his wrist and offers it up. Portia saunters back over and accepts it with a smile.

"Always so prepared," she chatters as she pulls and twists her cascade of black waves up into the most reasonable bun she can manage with a single tie. Gerry gives her a shrug and sets his chin on his crossed arms. “Between the bones, right?” she asks, knowing the answer but checking all the same. 

“Yeah, between every vertebrae like we talked about,” he reminds her, trying fruitlessly to force his muscles into some semblance of relaxation. 

“And you remember your safeword?” she questions, same as she always does.

“Pickles!” The familiar word comes out giddier than he’d expected so he rolls his fingers against his arms, hoping the rapid motion will excise some of the itching energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’d been hesitant to test his word at first, terrified of the possibility she wouldn’t listen. When it finally tumbled from his lips, more for the novelty than for need, he found himself almost marveling at how quickly she withdrew the needle and produced a small tube of ointment, ready to fret and croon over the same patch of skin she’d just been dancing the needle through. After several false stops she must have known he’d been testing her, or if not then, later, after he went through far worse areas with no complaint beyond clenched teeth. 

Still, Gerry never got the feeling she resented his probing at their boundaries, at just how solid what they had was set. It was stone, and she was sunshine. 

“Your favorite snack…” Disgust colors her otherwise cheerful tone. He knows how she feels about pickles, and the gentle teasing starts draining away the tension he’s been trying to shake for so long on his own.

“Aww, you remembered!” he teases back, the affection in his voice only half sarcastic.

“How could I forget!” Portia cries. “You once came in with an empty jar of pickles and sat there drinking the juice while I did your shoulders!” 

Gerry chuckles as he remembers the look of utter horror on her face when she had realized what the jar was for. 

“In my defense I was dehydrated and probably high off my arse.” Besides, it wasn’t his fault he was usually asleep during Portia’s open hours and a decent breakfast was so hard to come by in his house.

“Do not tell me that!” she protests, “You know I hate tattooing people under the influence!”

“Of pickle juice?” Gerry asks, a proper smile having found its way onto his face.

“Of anything!” Her lips turn down into a sneer and her tone is deathly serious, “ _Especially_ pickle juice.” The complete sincerity of her tone sends Gerry into a fit of snickers. Portia joins in on his laughter as she saunters to the side of the table. 

"Alright, let's see what we're working— hm," she cuts herself off as she lays eyes on Gerry's back. He's about to ask her what's wrong, but when the shiver of his skin senses her fingers stopped a centimeter above his lower back, he understands. 

"Um, Gerry?" Portia begins, retracting her hand from the earlier impulse to touch what she's discovered. He sighs, hoping they'll be able to skip over the most uncomfortable and untruthful parts of this conversation. He can practically hear the questions tumbling over themselves in Portia’s mind. Each one of them a wave scrabbling up closer and closer to his feet, longing to drag his stories out with the undertow. 

"How— How old are these?" Portia ventures, having settled on the safest and only necessary questions. "And are you sure you want me to go over them?" 

"Old," he answers, hoping his clipped tone will cut the curiosity just as short. "Real old. And yeah, go right over them. I'll be fine."

"I don't doubt you can handle the extra sensitivity, and while these don’t look like proper keloids, they’re still…" She doesn't have to finish the sentiment. Gerry knows how the uneven, angry red crisscross of scar tissue across his lower back must look, made all the worse by the little needlejabs flanking each one.

"Yeah, I'm sure. It's fine, even if they grow a little it’s not like you can make them that much worse." He drops his forehead to where his chin had just sat on his arms so he won’t have to see the look of concern on Portia’s face as she puts on her gloves.

“Okay, if you’re absolutely positive— Soap and shave time.” 

He appreciates the warning before her spray bottle spreads soapy water over his back. Gerry can feel the questions straining against their shackles on the tip of Portia’s tongue as she gently drags the razor over where the stencils will go. He knows she won’t actually ask, but it still hangs heavy in the air. Unanswered and unrelenting. By the time she’s wiping down his skin with rubbing alcohol the unvoiced question is practically burning a hole in his head and drowning him all at once. 

"It was a bear," he mutters, pausing Portia in her work.

"Hm?" It doesn't matter if she didn't hear or didn't understand, the questioning sound is enough to start it all tumbling out of him.

"The scars. They uh, they were caused by a bear." It isn't _quite_ a lie, but no real bear has eyes that human, or a growl so much like rolling, sadistic laughter. 

"I was on a camping trip and it went bad. The thing chased me through half the woods and when it finally got me. It clawed up my back. My mum managed to shoot the thing enough times that it ran off. We didn't have service and were too far from the car to get to a hospital so she—" He cuts himself off as he feels the choking panic build and bubble up in his throat, memories of blood spilling on dead leaves and first-aid kits reaching down from his brain to strangle him. 

It's Portia’s gentle, gloved hand that grounds him, placed delicately on his shoulder as the other resumes its cleaning. Another routine of theirs, another excuse. He knows if he wants to he can brush it off as her steadying herself, or accept it for the comforting gesture it’s meant to be. He chooses the latter, clinging to the contact like a life-ring so she can pull him back from where he'd started sinking away from himself, and continues.

"She stitched me up right there. It didn't heal well." As pulled together from half-truths as the story is, it should be enough to clear the stifling curiosity from the air. 

Gerry doesn't have to tell her he was made to act as bait, or about the week after, mostly lost to a sea of infection-induced fever dreams. She doesn't need to know about how he'd probably only pulled through thanks to the spare antibiotics he'd squirreled away in his closet for just such an occasion. She doesn’t need to know about the awful pulling sensation that came with the too-tight stitches being sniped and drawn out of his skin as he gripped the edge of the kitchen table and bit into his own arm to stop himself from screaming. She doesn't need to know he was only fourteen.

"Okay, okay, hey…” Portia croons, and Gerry suddenly realizes how fast he’s not breathing, shallow gasps escaping his closing throat and chest. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light of the parlor, suddenly too harsh and bright and too much like those in his kitchen at home.

“No wonder you’re such a trooper, putting all my big, macho, tough-guy clients to shame.” The methodical swipe of the alcohol-soaked paper towel and Portia’s pleasantly cool hand on his shoulder orients him back to the surface of himself enough to listen to her voice. 

A voice is good. Any voice, but particularly hers, light and rambling, easy to let wash over him without catching on his edges. Edges he can feel again with the sound and touch dragging him back into his body, into the moment, into the tattoo parlor where the only pain is what he chooses.

“How’s the game going?” he croaks out, hoping to give Portia anything else to talk about. She takes the non-sequitur in stride, and he can hear the clenched teeth she forces her words through.

“Unity…” Gerry glances up to take in her theatrically forced smile as she opens a plastic bag full of tiny stencils, “decided to disconnect _all_ my scripts! Every. Single. One!” 

“Oh no,” he mutters, knowing only whatever that means, it’s making his usually chipper artist shake with unexpressed rage. “That doesn’t sound good.” 

The sympathetic pout he musters up is as genuine as he can manage while trying to get his trembling under control. The shaking, fragile feeling of too much adrenaline coursing through his already hummingbird heart turns him into the broken glass surface of a pond whipped over with chilling wind. He digs his nails into his upper arms, directing his awareness away from his shatterbeat, pulsing panic, and towards the simple bite of pain.

“Oh, it’s _terrible!_ ” Portia confirms as she shakes a bottle of stencil application aid. “And I’ve tried _everything!_ Recompiling, rebuilding, rebooting, reinstalling, and restarting everything I can think of, as well as duplicating scenes and manually deleting and reattaching different script components, but nothing’s working! I’ve been on the forums all weekend and no one can figure out what’s wrong! The stupid console won’t even give me error messages anymore. It just completely refuses to recognize any of my scripts!” 

“I think you’ve shaken that bottle enough,” Gerry teases softly, the impassioned and incomprehensible rant having distracted him long enough for his chest to stop feeling crushed from the inside. He relaxes his fingers one by one, laying them on top of the red, crescent-moon indentations made by his nails. Portia glances at the bottle, now half-full of foam, and gives him a sheepish grin.

“I might be a _little_ frustrated…” She turns the bottle upside down, pouring a few drops onto her gloved hand. Gerry sighs, letting the last bit of tension out on his breath as Portia spreads the tacky lotion over his spine.

“I’ll say,” he replies. “What are you gonna do if no one on the forums can help?” 

It’s Portia’s turn to sigh as she pulls out and places the first stencil near the very base of his skull.

“I’m probably going to have to remake the entire thing in a completely new project. Which means replacing all the assets, plugging back in all the objects, and resetting all the variables. I mean there might be _some_ things from the original I can package up and import, but honestly, I’m worried the old project is cursed.” Portia speaks with such certainty that for a moment Gerry wonders, but there’s no pull at his thoughts when he turns his mind to it. He lets that reassure him, and tries to relax as Portia works her way down his back in a predictable rhythm of place, press, peel, place, press, peel, place, press, peel...

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Gerry says, letting his eyes slide closed as the repetitive sensations soothe his fraying nerves. 

“Oh, it will be, but I’ve been meaning to update the version of Unity I’m working in for a while anyway, so I guess I might as well do it now. Hopefully, I won’t have to change my scripts too much, but knowing my luck with Unity…” 

She finishes the sentiment with an irritated whining noise. Gerry breathes out a laugh at her exaggerated frustration, and the secret, bitter humor of sweet, lonely-marked Portia having problems with Unity. At least this had a solution though, a simple one, made up of nothing more esoteric than elbow grease.

"How's it otherwise?" he asks, doing his ever best to fight off the drowsy headache creeping in from the earlier brush of panic.

"Pretty good," Portia replies, her typical pep returning. "I'm finally getting around to writing out the route who's dialogue I'm most excited about."

"Is that the rebel girl or the person with the four cats?" Gerry does his best to remember the characters Portia had chattered about in previous sessions. Chances are he’d never find the time to sit around and play her game once it was finished, but while he was here he could let himself care about pretend people with solvable problems.

“It’s actually the one based off this tour guide at a museum I went to once. He had an incredible voice and the passion he had for the dinosaur bones was infectious. I didn’t even catch his name but I was so fascinated with the way he _spoke_ I had to base a character on it! He’s been so much fun to write, so talkative and lively! I think you’d like him.” The irony of a similar kind of passion being drawn out of Portia as she talks about the mannerisms of complete strangers isn’t lost on Gerry.

“Why, because I like talkative people?” he asks, managing to summon up a teasing smile. 

“Hey!” Portia whines. “You’re the one who asked!” Gerry doesn’t have to lift his head to know she’s pouting, and he’s about to needle her more when Bridget makes her presence known.

“He’s saying he likes you, dumbass.” Gerry peaks one eye open to see Bridget trudging over towards his spot, glaring down at a sheet of paper as she does.

“Oh! Aww, Gerry!” Portia coos from where she’s working about midway down his back. “I like you, too! Have I told you you’re pretty much my favorite customer?”

“Only every time I drop by,” he keeps his eyes on Bridget as he replies, watching her sneer sourly at the page in her hands.

“Well, it’s true!” Portia insists, finally looking over to Bridget. “Did you need something, Bridge?”

“Yeah, I need more eyes on this, more than yours. You’ve seen it already.” In her obvious frustration, Bridget dismisses Portia before honing her focus in on Gerry. “You do art, right? And you’ve got eyes for days. Tell me what’s wrong with this?” 

Bridget spins the paper to hold in front of Gerry’s face. On it is a line drawing of a skull with a pocket watch set between its too sharp teeth. A thin chain leaks out each side of the mouth and rests on the invisible ground. Bundles of hyacinth and lavender cross behind the skull to frame the whole piece. 

“Is this a tattoo design?” Gerry asks. Bridget nods her affirmation. “Alright, let me have a closer look.” 

Gerry reaches out, and Bridget moves to pass him the paper. Instead of taking it he flips his hands around, and moves his tattooed fingers up and down in front of the piece. He then closes his eyes and hums as if deep in contemplation.

“Yes, very good, I’m starting to get a clearer picture now.” When he opens his eyes he can see that his purposefully lame expansion of the joke is not appreciated in this particular moment.

“Oh, Haha. Very funny,” Bridget grumbles. “But really, what’s _wrong_ with it?” 

He takes the paper from her, looking over it more closely. “Hmm, does it have to be a pocket watch in the mouth?” 

“That’s what the client wants, yeah.” Bridget rolls her eyes as she nods, clearly tired of watches and skulls.

“In that case, try and simplify the clock face. The whole thing feels cluttered in that area with the teeth, intricate numbers, and little circle gear things you have. And maybe let the chain hang down instead of just sprawling, that’ll tighten up the silhouette of the whole design.” 

Gerry passes the paper back to Bridget. She peers over it, one side of her mouth curling up in disgust.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll give that a try. Thanks Gerry.” Her casual acceptance of the critique does nothing to warn him of the coming destruction as she shreds the paper down the middle. 

The sudden ripping burns in Gerry’s ears, far too much like hissing fire or tearing skin. He can feel Portia’s wince through her hands and knows he’s not alone in his discomfort. Something that tastes like acrid smoke lodges itself in his stomach and pushes bile to the back of his throat. He watches with a grimace as Bridget balls up the two halves of the paper and throws them into the small waste paper bin in the corner. 

“You have got to stop that.” Gerry tries not to let his mind be dragged back to the smell of smoke that followed Bridget when he’d first met her.

“Why?” She asks with the tone of a child being told to do chores they don’t understand. “It was in ink. No fixing that.” 

Gerry lets out a huff of frustration as Portia continues to quietly place his stencils.

“And how are you gonna look back at it now? See if you solved the problems it had in your next try?” He hates that he even has to make this argument. Bridget shrugs and stuffs her hands in her pockets.

“I don’t really bother with anything I’ve fucked up. Better to chuck that shit in the trash where it belongs." Bridget’s words are laced with kerosene, and Gerry has to fight hard not to glare at her for it. He knows it isn’t her fault she’s like this, liable to set herself ablaze should she be so careless as to strike the wrong match. She didn’t set out for self-immolation, but someone turned those hands to burning, and now it’s seemingly all she can do. Gerry had been hoping Portia and this place would help her cool off, but it seems like she needs a little more intervention than that.

"One, that wasn't a failure. That was a first pass—”

"Fifth pass," Bridget bemoans.

"Whatever.” By now he’s actually glaring. Maybe he can stare her down, make her _see_ just how destructive she’s being. “It was a draft, a damn good one at that. Two, even if it was a failure, you still put work into it, and that's worth more than the waste-bin. And three, how are you supposed to get better or build a portfolio if you keep scraping everything that isn't perfect? It's like trying to get a forest to grow by setting it on fire every few years if it isn't tall enough for you.” 

Bridget crosses her arms and glares at the wall to her right, earlier frustration starting to simmer into anger and embarrassment. The loss of eye-contact confronts Gerry with exactly how heated he’d just gotten, and for a moment he’s worried they’ll both be strangled by the smoke and say something they regret.

“He’s right, you know,” Portia murmurs, slicing through the tension like a ship on still water. “You don’t give yourself or your work enough credit. I know you prefer to blaze past any mistakes, but if you ever want to start your apprenticeship, you have to learn to be okay with permanence.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Gerry points a thumb over his shoulder at Portia as an idea starts forming in his head. “Don’t wanna miss your chance to use me as linework practice, right?” 

Bridget rolls her eyes and frowns at the both of them as Portia snickers. 

“Whatever,” Bridget grumbles before stomping back to the studio. Portia lets out a melancholy sigh once Bridget is out of earshot.

“What am I going to do with her?” The question is rhetorical but Gerry can’t help teasing the answer he has.

“I might have an idea.” A faintly self-satisfied grin sneaks across his face.

“Oh? Care to share with the class?”

“Nope! It’s gotta be a surprise.” In his head, he’s already selecting which one of his mother’s few, mundane contacts to commission. 

“I thought you hated surprises.” Portia raises a brow, a faint bit of her curiosity starting to tickle the edges of Gerry’s consciousness.

“Only when I’m the one being surprised.” He casts a glance over his shoulder at Portia, doing his best to look cheeky enough to communicate it’ll be better when revealed at completion.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Her shrug and release of interest lets him relax enough to nurture his plan in secret. It’ll have to be special, high-quality, and tightly bound. He should be able to manage it with the funds he has left. If not, he’ll figure something out. Filching a little extra cash would be worth it if it can stifle the smoke. 

Gerry hears Portia let out a soft, contemplative _hmm,_ as her hands come to a stop above his lower back once again. He’s about to ask what’s wrong, rip off the bandaid and answer whatever new curiosity has grabbed her interest when she speaks.

“So because the skin here is uneven, the linework isn’t going to be perfect, but you have a few options. I can apply the stencils as straight as possible without changing them, which will probably come out looking all wobbly. Normally, I wouldn’t suggest this at all but it’ll be truest to the design, and I know consistency is important to you. The second option is I can make it look as perfect as possible from straight on, but the more you turn the more distorted it’ll get. I’d probably suggest the third option, which is you let me line up the corners of it and freehand the rest of the stencil so I can sorta just eyeball what looks best from a few different perspectives.”

Gerry lets out a contemplative huff of air. He didn’t particularly like any of those options. Securing a little bit of clarity and consistency was the whole point of these tattoos. Of course something his mother did would rob him of that again. The options turn over and over again in his head like pebbles being broken against the shore. He glances back at Portia, who's waiting patiently for his response. Well, she is the expert.

“I’ve been paying you to eyeball me for almost a year now, what’s a little more?” he says, watching her as she grins and retrieves a marker from next to her inks. The feeling of Portia drawing isn’t as predictable as the stencils were, but her hand resting against his skin and the scratch of the marker pen is just as calming to Gerry. Almost as soon as he wonders why, it occurs to him that it's because he trusts her. 

Just as quickly he realizes how foreign that trust is. When he comes here he knows Portia will put her hands only where she says she will, only where he asks her too. He knows Bridget might yell, but never at him. He knows the ink and paper here is mundane. Every book is filled with pictures. Art. Permanence. Pieces designed as affirmations and aesthetics, only ever trying to bring their owners joy, never terror.

Portia’s hands may be too cold through her nitrile gloves when they first touch his skin, but knowing how they warm with every stencil placed and every bit of ink injected reassures him that she longs for connection. And Bridget may still be feverish at times but she’s still willing to put pieces of herself out there in a way that can't be taken back or destroyed. The two of them may have been adrift, but now they're anchored here, anchored to each other, and — in some way — anchored to him. Perhaps that is the only fear still living here, the terror of what he knows he will bring. Something will set its eyes on him. It always does, and if he's _here_ when that happens…

He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't keep friends for a reason. Even if his world doesn't see them, eventually his mother will. And she's proven before she's willing to use that against him. 

The very thought of her plunges his mind into ice water, his lungs and throat closing accordingly. He doesn't want to think about her here. He doesn't want to think about her at all. Doesn't want to think about her voice, sharp and wavering, laced with death to its very core. Doesn’t want to think about her hands, the back cracking against his face, or the palm closing around his neck. He doesn't want to think about _her,_ lifeless and staring and everywhere. 

This is the one place he can forget. The one place where he can drown her image in ink. 

“Alright, all done! Let me grab the mirrors so you can check.” Portia’s voice is clear and high like a bell, knocking out seven chimes to signify he can almost break from his unending watch. All he has to do is lock eyes with himself through the mirror she passes him and the one she holds above his back and angles up and down his spine. Her work is clean as ever, and he nods, almost desperately, when she asks him if everything looks good. 

Portia pours out her ink, switches gloves, and starts the tattoo machine wiring. Gerry is nodding again before she can even finish asking if he's ready, everything in him practically aching to be set free. She starts at the base of his skull, at the connection that causes him the most of his trouble. There are days where he feels like his head isn’t screwed on right; whether it's from the panic, floating away, or the terrible ache that keeps him in bed whenever there's rain or his body just decides that it hates him. 

Of all the ways he's found to leave those things behind, the burning vibration of the tattoo machine is by far his favorite. It's the same angry relief he gets when the flames of his lighter curl up around a book he knows only exists to hurt people. The pain burns under his skin and eats up any thoughts of his mother left in his head. Now there can be no more threads wrapping around his throat and sticking in his mouth, no chases where he is predator or prey, no choking panic or dreadstones. There is only the burn of ink, needle, and making.

Not all fire is created equal. He knows this better than most. 

In some, there is only destruction and pain, but others are full of warmth and light. Their burning is a purge, a cleansing of evil that makes way for a safer, _freer,_ world. There can be creation and rebirth in fire, be it in the flowers and pinecones that only bloom or after a blaze sweeps through the woods, or in the singeing of his spine as it seems to shake apart and draw out all the poison in his body and mind. He doesn't have to think about anything else. _Can't_ think about anything else, and in the buzz and burn he finds relief, respite, absolution. Portia's hands are as gentle as the needle is painful and in the storm of sensation he finally feels fully unwound. 

He isn't sure exactly when the meditative relief is overwhelmed by his exhaustion, but he makes no attempt to fight when his eyes slide closed. He feels safe here, and even in this half-conscious state the novelty of that isn't lost on him. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is why he allows himself to drift so far. Allows himself to be lulled into unthinking security. Into something he could actually dare call rest. It’s been so long since he’s been able to rest.

It's Portia's voice that, once again, pulls him back to his senses, but this time it's laced with urgency.

“Gerry? Gerry!? Are you okay? Did you pass out? Oh, my gosh, I didn’t even notice! Are you okay!? Can I get you water? Snacks? Paramedics? _Gerry!?”_

Her frantic questions wake him up quickly enough, and when he opens his eyes she’s kneeling in front of his face and about to dial 999. 

“Hmmm? No, I’m fine. Please don’t call the paramedics.” God, that’s the last thing he wants to deal with right now. His sleepy tone must convince her because her finger stops right before hitting the call button, and she starts to visibly relax.

“Alright, if you think you’re okay. You just scared me there! I mean, I’ve had clients faint on me before, but usually I get some warning first.” She lets out a breathy chuckle, obviously feeling just as bad about overreacting as he feels about scaring her. 

“Well, that’s ‘cause I didn’t faint,” he confesses, his ears heating up with embarrassment. “Just fell asleep a little.”

“You fell _asleep?”_ Portia’s already high voice jumps an entire octave on the last word, “While I tattooed your _spine?”_

“Yeah... is that weird?” Gerry fights down a snicker as Portia presses her hands together, leans her face against them, and stares, wide-eyed, at the table.

“It’s _a little_ weird!” she breathes, unable to push any volume out past her disbelief. All Gerry can do is shrug and chuckle at her reaction. 

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve slept through migraines worse than that.” He goes to sheepishly rub the back of his neck before remembering both Portia and the freshly tattooed skin would not be very happy with that.

“I mean, it doesn’t, but _okay!”_ She heaves an incredulous sigh and shakes her head at him before picking herself up off the ground to get back to work. “We’re almost done, but are you sure I can’t get you some water or anything?” 

Gerry’s mouth's as dry as it always is when he first wakes up so he nods his acceptance.

“Water’d be good, thanks.”

“Coming right up!” 

Portia strips off her gloves and vanishes into the back room. Gerry shifts forward on the table a little so he can drink without sitting up. He rolls his head around and stretches out his body, his joints greeting him with the tell-tale popping sounds of a good nap. 

If they were almost done already, that means he must have been out of it for a while. He absently wonders how long he’d been fully asleep for and how long he’d just been listening to the strident hum of the tattoo machine. It couldn’t have been too long if Portia had only just noticed. Even in their less talkative sessions she always made sure to ask the occasional question to check how he was doing. 

“Here you go,” Portia chimes as she hands him his glass of water. “Do you want me to wait until you’re finished or get right back into it?” 

“By the time you’re ready to start I’ll have drained it, so go on.” To accentuate his point he takes a long pull from the straw, draining almost half the glass in one go.

“Show off.” Portia rolls her eyes at him before heading back to her spot. He hums out his smugness around the straw as she changes her gloves and double-checks her needle and machine. 

The burn isn’t as prominent this time, not as consuming. He assumes it must be the placement, and of course he’d gotten used to the pain if he’d fallen asleep. Still, the gentle burning is enough to afford him another half hour where he doesn’t have to fight for serenity.

It’s Portia handing him the mirror again that lets him know his time is up. Her hovering reminds him to sit up slowly and stand even slower. When he first keeled over and bowled into her after standing up too fast, she’d laughed it off and assured him it happened all the time. Still, that didn’t mean he wanted to end up leaning on her arm as if she was the only guardrail between him and the dizzying ocean of unconsciousness. 

“Everything look good?” she asks him as he alternates between glancing over his shoulder at the full-length mirror and using the hand mirror to examine the line of eyes running down the center of his back. The raw skin glistens slightly with plasma and fresh ink. A grin spreads across his face, and he has to fight the urge to trace what eyes he can reach with his fingertips.

Gerry turns to tell Portia just how much he loves it when he's met by one of her widest smiles. A chuckle bubbles out of his chest as he notices her entire torso is wiggling back and forth with glee.

“What?” he questions, their excitement feeding off each other. 

“Oh, nothing, you’ve just got _the look.”_ She claps her hands a couple of times. “And the look makes me a _very happy_ tattoo artist! Now come on, sit back down. I need to dress that up.” She bustles back over to the table and pats the pleather before pulling out the gauze and medical tape. 

“What’s the look?” is all Gerry can think to ask as he takes his seat.

“It’s the new ink look. You know, that super satisfied, barely-contained-unbridled-joy look someone gets when they’re _really_ happy with their new tattoo. Best look an artist can get!” If he didn’t know her so well he’d say she sounded almost smug. 

“Happy to oblige,” he replies as she gently slathers his back with ointment. He should be used to this by now. Used to the gentle touch and care taken after his skin has been damaged. He’s been here and been through this so many times that he should be used to Portia’s ever so slightly too-cold hands, but he never is, and he doesn’t think he ever will be. 

He’s ashamed to say he’s a little proud of himself that he doesn’t jump when she gives his shoulder a gentle pat to signify that he’s all set.

“Alright, you know the drill by now. Don’t take the bandage off for two to four hours, _cool_ showers, and switch from ointment to lotion after it peels.” He listens to her familiar spiel while carefully maneuvering his shirt back on, hiding a roll of his eyes at the shower comment behind the fabric. He’d settle for lukewarm, a little ink loss wasn’t worth the aching joints.

“No soaking, pat to dry, and don’t scratch while it’s healing,” Gerry recites, knowing the care routine by heart at this point.

“Perfect! Now, do you have enough ointment from last time or do you need another tube?” Portia is already fishing around in a nearby drawer as she asks. 

“I should be set.” He’s met with a skeptical look and a spare tube being pushed into his hands. 

“This is the biggest area we’ve done in one go, so just to be safe.” She closes his fingers around the tube and gives his hands a little squeeze. A tacit wish of good luck and good healing. 

“Thanks, Porsh, and this of course.” He hands her a set of folded bills. The money might have even been forgotten had he not gone to slip the extra tube in his pocket. She stows the money away without even bothering to count it.

“Much appreciated! But uh, Gerry…” He can see one of Portia’s snake bites wiggle, meaning she’s worrying the other side with her tongue the way she often does when struggling to find the right way to word a question. 

He can practically see the phrases fighting each other in her head, though for the life of him he can’t figure out what it is she wants to ask. If he knew what she wanted from him he could beat her to the punch, get the answer out in the open where it can be seen and dealt with. The silence is like nails on a chalkboard, on his skin, on his bones. He knows whatever she wants to ask is enough to make her hesitate, dance around him like broken glass she’s worried will shatter further with one wrong word. It can’t be anything good, so he has to brace for it. He knows all too well how a question can feel like a punch to the gut.

“Do you have a way to coat the whole tattoo?” is what Portia finally settles on. Her words flutter around in his mind like paper butterflies as he tries to reconstruct what the first fifty phrasings she must have rejected were. At the same time, he takes stock of his own flexibility. He could probably manage if he’s a little less gentle than normal.

“Yeah. I’ll get by.” His reply seems to take too long for Portia because she transitions from worrying her piercing to biting her lip. 

“How about this, um…” She finds what she’s looking for in a scrap of paper and her marker pen. She jots down several numbers, times he thinks, and passes it to him.

“I don’t have any big tattoos scheduled this week, so why don’t you stop by on our lunch hours, and I can get your back for you. That’ll surely be easier than trying to get it all by yourself!” 

Oh. That’s why. 

Gerry should know by now that she can see right through him, always to perceptive in the exact ways he needs her to be. He looks at the hours scribbled down in her neat, loopy handwriting and thinks about her caring hands as she bandaged him. It would be easier to let her do it. 

“Why…” His question comes out half-formed, with none of the thought she’d put into hers. He almost feels guilty for letting it slip out with so little consideration.

“Well, you are my favorite customer!” she offers, and if he were anyone else he’s sure he’d have missed the strain in her voice. “I can’t have you running around with my work all poorly healed and flaked off, now, can I?”

“No, I guess not.” He’ll take the excuse. Let it lie at her taking pride in her work, at him wanting to do her work justice. She’ll let him ignore the concern beneath concern, and he can pretend to return for want of better healing and nothing else. 

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” The timid hope in her voice is enough to make him grip the paper tighter. 

“Yeah. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow.”


End file.
